Eight pages
by WhirlOfDestruction
Summary: Slenderman...the one who haunts...the one who drives people insane. He'll be coming for you, and he'll make sure he gets you.


**(If you have not played Slender: the eight pages, then I would thoroughly recommend doing so. Before bedtime. With the lights off. Reading this story without any prior knowledge to Slender will just make the story seem stupid.) **

Eight pages

You see a figure. A tall, towering figure. He's near you. He's looking at you. He's next to you.

He's coming for you. His hand rises as he reaches for you…

Your eyes snap open. You jerk awake from the nightmare, breathing heavily in fear. You flick your eyes from side to side, urgently seeking peace. The white face, or rather, the blank white face, still feels like he's staring at you in the darkness of your room. Though, you suspect in your mind that he is. In fact, not even that. You _know _he is.

Because the nightmares are nothing new. Of course, that doesn't mean you're used to them. Every sleep brings fresh terror. You keep telling yourself it's alright, that this time you can stand it, but you know it's useless, and every dream, sure enough, twists into _his_ horrific playground. He's always seizing you, reminding you in every dream that he's there, and could take you away in a second. It's torturous. You want to end it now, scream at him _JUST_ _GET IT OVER WITH! _If he's wants you so much, why doesn't he just finish you now, since you're so helpless? But you already know the answer. He wants you to suffer. You are under his control, whether you like it or not. You are his game. His wild, defenceless prey.

You aren't sure how long you can stand it.

Your hand fumbles for the desk lamp, and with a little _click_, it switches on. The room briefly flickers with shadows, but is softly illuminated enough for you. There aren't any places to hide in your bedroom, since you can see every corner. And the ones you can't see, you don't look at.

On the desk lies a crudely-drawn picture, with the words _don't look… or it takes you_ coupled with strange pictures. This note is here for a reason. A notebook is filled with these pages of your scribblings. These drawings are of your greatest fears.

You shudder at the thought. Since you're awake, and probably aren't going to sleep anytime soon, you haul yourself upright. The mirror hanging on your wardrobe stares at you, and you realise that if you looked in it, the last thing you'd see wouldn't be your face, it would be his. Besides, you don't need a mirror to tell how you look. Cold, tired, and frightened. You can literally feel the stinging rims around your eyes, which want a good night's sleep. But of course, that won't happen. Often, you give up sleep altogether. But that's just as scary. Sitting in your room, with the lamp on, usually just staring into the blackness. Sweat, running down your face, as you repeat to yourself that nothing's there, it's just your crazy imagination. Ha. You're a bad liar. It's a good thing you closed the curtains to, or else you'd probably faint. Actually, that might be a better alternative. But it would still petrify the crap out of you.

You can clearly remember when you saw him first. Well, sort of. You know perfectly when and where it was, but you still have doubts about it. Like when you remember someone telling you their name yet you have a nagging suspicion you're wrong. It was far from the nightmare you are in now- things were normal back then. It's odd, remembering the time you weren't haunted by him. It was in summer, if you remember correctly, and you and your friends were walking in the woods next to your house. Your parents, annoyed with the amount of time you spent on video games, told you to get out and do something active, so you called up your friends and off you went. It wasn't anything serious, just randomly walking wherever you happened to go, laughing and joking, as you all normally did. You walked on ahead, laughing louder than any of them, and all of a sudden they weren't laughing back. You turned around, and realised they weren't there. There wasn't in fact, any sight of them. Just miles and miles of trees. Muttering under your breath, you headed in the general direction you'd come from, promising to get them back at the next opportunity. When suddenly, you felt something behind you. It wasn't someone's body heat, there wasn't a sense of someone _being_ in the vicinity, but instinct tugged at you pretty hard then. So you turned around.

And there he was.

You didn't think about it. You just ran. The blank face, the strangely elegant suit, his thin, macabre arms, you didn't need that to know he was trouble. When your friends found you again, they started loudly complaining about how you wandered off on your own. You didn't really listen. All you could think of was him.

"Who was that man in the woods?" you asked timidly, cutting off their conversation.

They simply stared in confusion. "You sure you're alright?" one of them said, in amused worry. Even though they were joking, you shook your head. But they didn't go on that path. They weren't near him. Of course they wouldn't know him.

A picture was drawn after that, of the man in the woods. The tall, faceless one surrounded by the trees.

"Might have been a drunken tramp." Suggested another of your friends. The rest of them laughed, but you had nothing to say. No, he was definitely not drunk and definitely not a tramp. You couldn't really name what he was. After that day in the woods, you behaved differently. In your mind, you saw him, watching you. You began to think he was everywhere. And so several months later, it turned you from yourself into a paranoid, gibbering wreck. Your family noticed a difference. So did your friends.

Aah, your friends. A picture on the wall shows you all gloriously smiling, you with a slightly over-done grin to the camera. But you look happy. You all look so happy. The picture stabs at you mentally. You forgot your friends after he appeared. Well, not entirely forgot, but you didn't care anymore. Didn't have time. Besides, if they came into contact with him, you didn't want them being hunted as well as you. Your family was the same story. Since you live with them, they were harder to avoid, but you shut yourself away, letting nobody in.

_HELP ME_ screeched another pencil drawing.

The options were limited. As far as you were concerned, there weren't any. You asked your mother if you could start seeing a counsellor, and she was more than happy to oblige, seeing it as a sign that you were finally opening up to people again. But when you started seeing the counsellor, a balding man in his forties, you didn't know how to phrase it without it sounding silly. You didn't want to be carted off to an asylum, since they may have tough stone walls, but they have nowhere to hide. If you went there, you fear you'd be dead within a day.

_Always watches no eyes _said another page.

So the counsellor helped none. Your parents were distraught by this. If a COUNSELLOR couldn't, who could? So they tried to get along as normal and made a point of telling you how much they cared. You already knew this, but you felt trapped. Nobody would understand. Nobody could ever, ever know the true horror this person inflicted.

The tall, thin, slender…

Slenderman.

You feel something stirring when you repeat this name in your head. Like when discovering a long-lost friend's name or phone number. But this man is not your friend. No. He isn't your 'nemesis' either. A nemesis hints there is a chance you are both equals.

_LEAVE ME ALONE _screams another piece of paper.

You totter up to the window, observing the quiet outside. It looks peaceful, all the trees clumped together, if not a little threatening. You know it's a mistake to look, because you know he'll be there.

And so he is. You duck quickly out of the window's sight, backing up against the wall so he can't see you. You know there isn't much time. The inevitable. Soon he will stop playing games and take you for real. You don't know where, but you know he will. You pick up a thin, broken pencil lying on the floor and start your hysterical scribbling again.

_Can't run _it cries.

Then your mind starts ebbing into madness…nobody can save you, you know that. Nobody will find you. How many months has it been tracking you? How many months will it take before he becomes bored of you? You know the time must be up soon. At least, you think so…

_NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO _

Babbles the picture, with a drawing of Slenderman in the middle. You want to deny reality; you want to wish it away. You break down in strangled sobs. Your parents in the other room are asleep. They pay no attention to you. This happens a lot, they have been convinced you don't want their help.

It's odd, but these pictures have become your reality. They've become your last hold on any kind of sanity. They are your way of explaining your fate.

_Follows _

Whispers the last note. A little picture of slender standing in a forest is placed with it. Your notebook is full. There weren't many pages to start with, and the only things you feel you can explain have already been put down. When you die, or go missing, or whatever happens beyond the slender man, at least the pictures will tell something. At least anyone else who becomes the next prey has something to turn to.

You look up. His face is there. You close your eyes.


End file.
